


The reincarnation of archy

by Grondfic



Category: Archy and Mehitabel - Don Marquis
Genre: M/M, Uncategorized fandoms - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-24
Updated: 2010-03-24
Packaged: 2017-10-08 07:16:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/74061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grondfic/pseuds/Grondfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the two books by Don Marquis - <i>archy and mehitabel</i> and <i>archy s life of mehitabel</i>. The poems are pastiches of e e cummings, and concern a cockroach (archy) and a cat (mehitabel), who comment on inter-War New York (and Paris and Hollywood). These four short pieces take the story onwards to the next reincarnations of archy and mehitabel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. archys declaration of undying love

_**archys declaration of undying love: a slashpoem based on Don Marquis: _archy and mehitabel_**_  
**TITLE: archys declaration of undying love  
FANDOM**: _archy and mehitabel_ and _archys life of mehitabel_ by Don Marquis  
**Rating**: Angsty and unrequited; also lacking in punctuation and shift-key  
**CHARACTERS**: archy/boss, mehitabel  
**WARNINGS**: Dangerously e e cummingsesque  
**DISCLAIMER**: All rights reserved. No copyright infringement intended; no money made.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES**: Don Marquis was essentially a talented hack who liked to fill his column with the least possible work. He got it figured that the free-verse form (as practised by e e cummings) with its short lines and lack of any punctuation or use of upper case letters, would do this most easily. He therefore invented archy (a free-verse poet who died, and was transmigrated into a cockroach for his sins against poetry) and mehitabel (the newspaper office cat, who claims also to be a reincarnation of Cleopatra - or anyone really, provided they were a flash dame with class). mehitabel's watchword is _toujours gai_ (when it isn't _wotthehell_). archy is supposed to write his poems (which reflect on life, the universe and everything) by laboriously headbutting the typewriter keys. 'Boss' is of course, supposed to be Don Marquis himself, as the recipient of archys effusions.

* * * *  
boss mehitabel the cat   
insists i need a fresh start here  
archy she says there is no point  
in hiding what you are that is a cowardly cockroach way  
toujours gai kid she says toujours gai  
  
i may have said once or twice boss  
that i was no great shakes   
as a man i was no  
valentino exclamation point  
you would not have gone for me boss  
my poems were bad my skin  
was bad and i had bad breath  
from the speakeasy  
i was a scrounger and  
a bum  
which when you consider it  
isnt any different now  
this makes me think that what  
is ok for a bug is  
nonetheless not ok in a man  
but i m in for the long haul  
anyway boss as you know  
i m working my way  
back up the tree of life  
but lo the soul of a poet  
grants me imagination  
which can be a curse boss  
because  
i cant get you out of my head  
and thats the truth stop  
there s days i lurk behind the hatstand  
just to watch how your  
fingers  
press firmly on those keys  
that i must headbut so painfully  
and only express my love in lower case  
o boss   
fix the shift lock soon  
so i can give you all the capital  
chapter and verse  
of passion ever unrequited  
ps   
the doughnut was good but if  
you could run to champagne and caviar  
i d do you an ode  
in the manner of keats  
a sonnet like petrarch  
or a sestet like dante  
boss o boss  
would it could be  
an epithalamion  
like old e e once did exclamation point  
pps   
boss mehitabel the cat says   
i am a lady archy so far be it from me  
to harsh your mellow but  
you sound like a creep  
and your song of love will be  
more of a squick than a squee  
boss i have no idea   
what shes on about  
love  
your faithful little bug  
archy


	2. Boss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I have effected a teensy crossover in that I've gacked the name _Arenskaya_ from Brahms and Simon's _Six Curtains for Stroganova_ and _Bullet in the Ballet_.
> 
> 2\. The italicised quotes are, of course, all from the books.

_**BOSS: a Short Scenario based on Don Marquis: _archy and mehitabel_**_  
**TITLE: Boss  
FANDOM**: _archy and mehitabel_ and _archys life of mehitabel_ by Don Marquis  
**Rating**: A simple tale - just a bit of speculation. If you look closely, you might find some slash overtones.  
**CHARACTERS**: Boss, others who might or might not be familiar  
**WARNINGS**: Character deaths *sniffle*  
**DISCLAIMER**: All rights reserved. No copyright infringement intended; no money made.

* * * *

The Boss, looking for something sharp to say in his retirement speech, riffled the pages of his scrap-book of past columns. He was damned if he was going to serve up The Usual like old Krönke had done last week (high on Jack Daniels and reduced to embarrassing sobs towards the end).

"There's life in the old dog yet!" he muttered pugnaciously; and then as an afterthought – " _'cheerio my deario_' ….."

It was decades now since The Great Office Renovation had cleared – once and for-all – the teeming insect-life from within the walls and the rodents from the cellars.

Shortly thereafter The Boss remembered seeing the sad corpse of the Office Cat – moth-eared, moulting and painfully scraggy – stretched stark on the trash-barge.

And so they had gone – the Cockroach and the Cat; taking with them his inspiration. His job as Features Editor was safe of course – but the savour had gone out of it.

_i am not archy  
i am anarchy_

_toujours gai archy toujours gai_

_but as in corners  
dim I bide  
i can t dodge knowledge   
though i try  
i see things from  
the underside_

_so cheerio my deario  
there s a dance in the old dame yet_

The Boss shook himself and snapped the book shut. He'd finish The Speech later. Now – professional to the end – he must do one last interview: a couple of babes from the latest craze to sweep the country - _artistes_ (he snorted mentally) from the revived Ballets Russes.

* * * *

They swooped in from the bright Outside like twittering swallows; transient summer-visitors alighting briefly on his darkened booth. The barkeep dourly took orders ("_On the Newsweek tab, Dude? OK!_") – and disappeared.

"We – ell," drawled The Boss, "So YOU'RE what all the fuss is about?"

The butterflies exchanged knowing glances.

"He dozzn't see it, Rudi! Meester Bozz, I am always zee Lady, zo we will – as zey say – play it your way! I Am Arenskaya, _Premiere Ballerina_! A leetle – ahem – past my prime, eet ees true. But – hells, Boss – _zere's a dance in the old dame yet_, as you say here. And zis ……"

The young man leaned forward eagerly.

"A privilege!" he murmured, "Even in far Monte Carlo we hear of YOUR work, Boss! _'it has given me a new outlook upon life i see things from the under side now'_ "

The Boss blinked. This sudden resurgence of his old stuff unnerved him; as did the intensity of the frankly gorgeous young man's gaze. The just-beyond-youthful ballerina, however, assailed him with a comforting sense of half-familiarity.

"I didn't realise my poor work was so well-known …. " he began uncertainly.

"Aw c'mon Boss!" Arenskaya's careful Russian broke suddenly into its native New York, "We OWE you, for giving us The Oxygen of Publicity! I'd kiss you, Boss, but Arch here would MOIDER me ….!"

The Boss gazed, bemused, as the young Adonis glared at Arenskaya.

"You confuse him!" he accused fiercely, "And I will NOT permit …."

He snorted heavily through his exquisitely flared nostrils, turned back and grasped The Boss's gnarled right hand between his supple fingers.

The Boss found himself gazing into liquid dark eyes which bored into his soul. He withstood the stare with his own blood-veined orbs, blinking only when his callused hand was raised to sculpted lips, and a burning kiss placed upon it.

"My name," announced The Vision ardently, "is Rudi Archov, _premier danseur_ with the Nouveaux Ballets Russes! But you may call me Anarchy, for thus I am when I dance! Tell me, Boss, _do you believe in the transmigration of the soul?_"


	3. Past-Life Regression (Achy's Wooing)

_**PAST-LIFE REGRESSION (Archy's Wooing): based on Don Marquis _archy and mehitabel_**_  
**TITLE: Past-Life Regression (Achy's Wooing)  
FANDOM**: _archy and mehitabel_ and _archys life of mehitabel_ by Don Marquis.   
**Rating**: Ardent  
**CHARACTERS**: Archy (Rudi Archov), Boss, mention of Mehitabel (Arenskaya), Madame Grondskaya.  
**WARNINGS**: A blatant piece of authorial self-insertion.   
**DISCLAIMER**: All rights reserved. No copyright infringement intended; no money made

* * * *

**Prologue**  
  
The Boss, now retired - fancy-free, but rather strapped for cash – accepted a free invitation from dancers of the Nouveaux Ballets Russes to attend their opening night at the New York Opera, followed by supper with the two Principals. The evening culminated in a private séance in an upstairs room at the restaurant.

The mysterious Madame Grondskaya lost no time in putting the delectable Rudi Archov into a trance during which, he claimed afterwards (one exquisite, trembling hand clasping The Boss for comfort), he had travelled to his Past Lives.

The Boss could do no less than offer the bewildered, still-tranced-up and palely-loitering youngster a bed for the night in his apartment; at which Arenskaya made a wry face and departed muttering _wotthehell_.

The following morning, arising somewhat tardily from his living-room couch after imbibing a great deal of raw vodka the night before, The Boss found the apartment once more his own. Much later in the day, however, he discovered the following note stuck in his ancient typewriter:

**boss o boss**

the powers that be  
have given me this spacious new body  
boss my mirror tells me  
that i now look like  
hamlet prince of denmark only  
without the suicidal urge

and fatal indecision my  
legs and feet my  
arms hands and torso  
are precision instruments  
that i make poetry with  
and o boss so much better  
than this vers libre stuff

my body knows   
what my brain can t get said

but boss it s a bit unnerving  
it makes me blush when  
i see you looking

mehitabel the cat  
whirling madly in dying swan mode  
peers up through raining feathers  
archy she says you are a dope  
life is for living toujours gai as you are  
get in there shake your tush  
and wow the boss archy

boss if i didn t know better  
i would say mehitabel has no soul  
but  
it cannot be denied she has more savoir faire than me

so  
boss beloved and  
beloved boss i place  
this rather fetching body  
entirely  
at your disposal  
it will  
do you proud  
and i  
your faithful little bug  
will bless the powers that be  
for giving me  
the means  
whereby i may requite thee  
boss my boss  
tonite after the show  
will i come to thee  
anarchy  
XXXXXXXX


	4. Archy's Ecstasy

_**ARCHY'S ECSTASY: based on Don Marquis _archy and mehitabel_**_  
**TITLE: Archy's Ecstasy  
FANDOM**: _archy and mehitabel_ and _archys life of mehitabel_ by Don Marquis.   
**Rating**: Ecstatic. Final.  
**CHARACTERS**: Archy (Rudi Archov)/Boss, mention of Mehitabel (Arenskaya).  
**DISCLAIMER**: All rights reserved. No copyright infringement intended; no money made

* * * *

**Prologue**  
  
The Boss had waited in some trepidation for Rudi Achov's promised post-show visit. He was acutely aware that his apartment, in a rundown and frankly seedy back street, was hardly what a rising star of the Nouveaux Ballets Russes (even one who had once inhabited the body of a cockroach) would be accustomed to.

It was furthermore cluttered with ancient books and littered with sheets of paper on which The Boss was attempting a Magnum Opus of gigantic proportion and wide scope.

However, the young dancer seemed unaware of this (unless you count his surreptitious glances beneath the desk-legs and suppressed murmur of - _"Hmm – a stray dime! Enough for more doughnuts, Boss!"_)

Otherwise blithely unmoved by his surroundings, he swooped on The Boss, removed with agile, slender fingers the majority of his ancient tweed over-clothing and ….

…. but let us move swiftly on to Archy/Archov's own account, produced under circumstances to be elaborated-upon in the forthcoming Epilogue.

* * * *

**ode to boss**

~~shall i compare thee to a~~

~~my ear is open like a greedy shark,  
to catch the tunings of a voice divine~~

obossobossobossobossobossOBOSS EXCLAMATION POINTSPOINTSPOINTS

BOSS IN CAPITALS  
MY BRAIN IS FLOATING  
IN CHAMPAGNE BUBBLES  
AND  
MY SOUL SWIMS IN  
THE MIDNIGHT SKY  
BUMPING ITS INSUBSTANTIAL HEAD  
ON SUNDRY STARS  
LIKE CELESTIAL TYPEWRITER  
KEYS STOP

I AM IN LOVE EXCLAMATION POINT

BOSS MY BODY IS A HARP  
TO PLAY THE CADENCE OF YOUR NAME

AS WE AHEM  
EXCHANGED FLUIDS IT WAS  
SWEETER BY FAR THAN  
THE SPEAKEASY WINE  
ON PAYDAY  
SWEETER THAN  
THOSE CRUMBS OF PURLOINED DOUGHNUT  
YOU ONCE LEFT FOR ME

BRACKET HOW I LOVED YOU THEN CLOSE BRACKET

SHARPER THAN  
THE ABSINTHE SMEARS  
I SAMPLED IN MONTMARTRE  
WITH MEHITABEL THE CAT  
WAS THE INSTANT  
OF PENETRATION BOSS MY BOSS

YOUR HANDS WERE ROUGH AND WARM  
UPON THIS SKIN OF MINE  
WHICH STILL I COUNT  
A MIRACLE  
AFTER HARD CHITIN

BOSS  
YOU MUST BECOME  
DIAGHALEV  
TO MY NIJINSKY  
BOSS I NEED YOU  
MORE  
WITH EVERY PLIÉ  
ARABESQUE AND LEAP

BOSS   
OLD EUROPE WAITS  
IN AGE OLD SLUMBER FOR   
MY AWAKENING KISS AS

AURORA S PRINCE  
THE GOLDEN SLAVE  
PETRUSHKA  
SIEGFRIED  
NUTCRACKER  
IT ALL AWAITS ME THERE

BUT LACKING YOU  
MY HONED AND TRANSIENT SPARK  
WILL DIE IN MONTE CARLO S  
SENSUOUS SANDS

UNLESS YOU SUCCOUR ME  
MY FRAGILE TALENT CRUMBLES QUICK  
AND DIES

O BOSS  
COME WITH ME  
EVERY TIME AND OFT …….

* * * *

**Epilogue**

Sometime between midnight and dawn the Boss had been rudely awoken from post-coital dreams of futuristic doughnuts called _krispy kremes_ (one of which he was sharing, mouth-to-mouth, with Rudi Archov) and champagne soda-fountains, by the heavy tapping of his typewriter keys.

He beheld, by faint star-and-street-light, the nude form of his young lover seated at the typewriter. In total disbelief he watched the dancer bend laboriously over the machine, hitting each key with his nose. Frantically The Boss sought to halt the process, since it was painfully clear that human anatomy is not as tough as that of a cockroach.

However, Archov was clearly back in trance-state; and so The Boss, in desperation, gently took his right hand and placed it on the keyboard. As he did so, Archov's left hand came up smartly and engaged the shift-lock.

Reading quickly as the ode unfolded before him, The Boss realised that he had reached a rather belated crossroads. Should he give up the _noiseless tenor of his ways_ and join the rackety circus that was the life of a touring ballet troupe?

Slowly he leaned over Archov's shoulder, and typed a few shy words below the impassioned capitals of the declaration –

_"What about my Magnum Opus? What will Mehitabel say?"_ and then, with a catch of breath within his soul, and all in lowercase – _"you'll leave me for someone younger"_

This produced an explosion

BOSS EXCLAMATION POINTSPOINTSPOINTSPOINTSPOINTSPOINTSPOINTS  
POINTSPOINTSPOINTS

HOW CAN YOU SAY .... QUESTION MARK  
HOW CAN I TELL YOU .... QUESTION MARK

YOU ARE THE INK IN MY PEN  
YOU ARE THE MUSIC OF MY DANCE  
YOU ARE THE DIME THAT BUYS THE DOUGHNUT  
THE FIZZ IN THE CHAMPAGNE EXCLAMATION POINT

YOU ARE THE BLOOD IN MY VEINS  
YOU ARE THE SOFTNESS OF MY SKIN  
YOU ARE THE VOICE THAT GAVE ME VOICE  
THE WRITER AND BOOKMAN EXCLAMATION POINT

BOSS I CAN T  
DO THIS WITHOUT YOU  
BRING YOURSELF BRACKET YOUR ONLY MAGNUM OP CLOSE BRACKET  
WITH YOU  
AND LEAVE MEHITABEL THE CAT TO ME EXCLAMATION POINT

IF SHE BUT SAYS A WORD A WORD  
I LL CRASH HER FROM A FULL EXTENDED LIFT  
HEADFIRST INTO THE ORCHESTRA  
IT WON T BE THE ONLY TIME   
SHE S GIVEN HEAD TO THE FRENCH HORNS

BOSS PLEASE COME  
AND SAVE ME FROM ASSAULT CHARGES  
AND MUCH ELSE BESIDES

In the face of this impassioned plea The Boss crumbled, his romantic soul (long hidden under the crusty exterior of a New York journalist) taking over from his native hard-headedness.

"OK – I guess!" he said hesitantly.

The tranced dancer came suddenly alive, leaping athletically from the keyboard and enveloping his lover in sloppy kisses and a cable-like embrace.

"Bring on the Mag Op, Boss! Europe awaits!"

The FINAL End


End file.
